


when you need me

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Their Meddling Friends, Biker Dads & Writer Dads, Cute Kids, Everything's Fluff & Tuunbaq Doesn't Matter, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Multi, The (Step)Parent Trap, two hot dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 07:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16301159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: With a thriving business in central London, Francis Crozier has got nearly everything he wants – until one day, when a surprise visitor turns his world upside down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from a Bruce Springsteen song, natch.

“I don’t bloody well care whether Manson’s good for it now,” Francis Crozier snarled to his assistant Thomas Jopson, as they stormed toward the busy garage and away from Little’s cramped sales office. The harsh torque of buzzing power tools echoed through the air. Each bay was full. Good. “Last time we extended that god-damned Neanderthal a lick of credit, he fuckin’ fucked off to Majorca with his mates and left the sodding bike in the rain to rust, without even a cover! _Eight months_ of work, gone just like that.”

He snapped his fingers to emphasize the nature of this heinous crime.

“Well, yes, but,” Jopson lengthened his strides to keep up, the soles of his black hightops now slapping the floor like a pair of bloody clown shoes, “to be fair, sir, that was ten years ago now. I’d wager the man’s got a bit more careful about his personal belongings since he was sixteen.”

“So what if he has?” scoffed Francis. The empty office turned makeshift break room was already in his sights, and he ached to step inside, lean against the frame of the door, and shut out the world for a brief few minutes. Or perhaps have a Mars bar in secret before Jopson could complain about him skipping meals again. “He can bloody well get a motorbike from anyone else in the goddamned city, so don’t fucking bother me about it again until – ”

Opening the door to the break room, and preparing to slam it behind him in a fit of pique, he startled backwards as he realized there was already someone inside.

A small dark-haired, pink-faced girl, perhaps five or six years old, sat on the dirty tile using some kind of lurid purple backpack as a makeshift cushion, and sobbing as pitifully as if someone had just ripped her heart out.

“Jopson,” Francis said faintly, out of habit, and then louder, voice rising in an alarmed way. “Jopson? Whose bl – whose _– child_ is this?”

“Sir?” Sounding perplexed, Thomas returned to the door, and when he saw who was within, he let out an _oh_ of surprise. “Goodness me. Who on earth are you?”

“Go away!” cried the little girl. With an absurdly high-pitched grunt, she pulled off one of her small trainers and heaved it in their direction, clearly attempting to clock one or both of them in the head. A little eddy of blue sparkles trailed after her tiny trainer as it hit the concrete, several centimeters to the right of the doorway. Red lights all across the heel danced across the floor in patterns after it hit the ground.

Slowly, they closed the door again, and stood frozen in the hallway.

Francis was nearly convinced that if he opened it a second time, this girl would be gone as soon as she’d appeared, as quickly as a mirage in the desert.

“I’ll – er – make some tea,” was all Jopson said first, clearly thrown, and motioned toward the door with one hand. “You – talk to her. Calm her down.”

“Since when do I fucking calm anyone down?” hissed Francis in a panic, but Jopson just gave him a stern look, and motioned to the closed door again. “Thomas!”

“I can _hear_ you,” snapped the small voice from within. “You’re not going away!”

“Course we aren’t.” Francis let out a frustrated groan, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because we work here. This is our shop, for god’s sake. Now, who the – what are you even _doing_ in there?”

 

##

 

Her name was Alice Charlewood Fitzjames.

One side of her hair hung in a long, thick braid – the old-fashioned kind that you’d have seen in some ancient Victorian movie. The other side of her hair was a bit sticky-outy by comparison, with the bulk of it hidden by an oversized red school beret, which was held to her head with several mismatched flower clips.

She liked boats and ballerinas, was still in primary school, and had gotten off the bus several stops ahead of her usual route.

And unfortunately, that was all she would tell them.

Even Thomas, who had a knack for getting on with his nieces and nephews, who wheedled and bribed and wrangled snot-nosed brats with the best of them, could not get this girl to confess anything useful, such as where she lived, what school she’d come from, or who the bloody hell her parents were.

It was only when Thomas went to put the kettle on for a second round of tea (or so he claimed) that Francis noticed the girl was clutching a small, thin object in her right hand, very tightly. Perhaps some kind of keychain or lanyard. Looked like a long false tail sticking out from her clenched fist.

She saw him glance over, pulled the arm close to her body, and stuck out her tongue. “I’m not going to show you this, so stop looking!”

“Good,” Francis huffed, and turned up his nose in an exaggerated way, folding both arms over his chest. “Don’t want to see what you’ve got.”

“Yes, you do,” she accused in a knowing voice.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. I saw you look!”

“Really don’t.”

Truth be told, he was half-interested. Hopefully it wasn’t something nicked from the back or from the coffee station.

Now she’d got impatient. “Well, why don’t you want to?”

“Why don’t you tell me why?”

She cut him a glare that was eerie in its complete, adult-like measure of distrust. “Because you’ll laugh.”

Francis unfolded his arms, glanced sideways at the wall. For a brief moment, a surge of sympathy coursed through his chest. It was unprecedented, really. He’d never felt positively about any child before. They always hated him. But he could certainly understand her distrust. Or not wanting to be laughed at by a stranger.

“False,” he finally said, as kindly as he could manage. “I promise I won’t.”

The little girl studied his face with narrowed eyes for a long moment, and apparently decided he was telling the truth. Carefully, she sat up, glancing over at the far wall where the vending machines sat as she began to talk.

“Daddy was going to – to help me curl my hair like a mermaid for my school pictures next week, and now stupid Clive and his stupid nasty walrus face’ve ruined everything.”

Blinking, Francis attempted to translate this tirade. “Who’s – Clive?”

“He’s in junior school.” She made a dejected noise. “Sits behind me and Katie. He’s _really_ awful.”

A faint sense of foreboding stirred in Francis’s gut. “Oh?”

With a sniff, Alice glanced down at her cradled arm, and slowly opened her clenched fist, as softly as if she were releasing a butterfly into the wild. Held in her hand was a second blonde braid, several inches in length. It had been snipped clean through the middle and was still tied on one end with a short yellow ribbon.

“He cut your hair,” Francis said dully, and suddenly realized why a small girl might want to get off of her usual bus as quickly as possible, even if it meant she’d get lost. She was being bullied. “How long have you been putting up with this Clive?”

“Forever,” she said darkly.

“And that’s why you left the bus before your stop, hm?”

She nodded once, poking at the shorn, jagged ends of her little braid. “Patrick and Meghan and Priya’re always walking to the grocer’s from Belvedere Road, so I thought I could, too, only the stop was all wrong, and then I saw the big door open with all the scary loud men and the big bikes and I thought no one would follow me in there – ”

The garage. She’d snuck in through the garage. Blanky probably hadn’t heard a fucking peep over those damn industrial sanders. Really should’ve installed those security cameras out by the bay doors.

“Daddy’s going to be really angry with me,” whispered the girl now. "I was supposed to go to afterschool."

“Probably will do, yeah.” Francis felt that odd little pang of sympathy course through his middle again. “But look here. If you’re being – if someone’s – hurting you, then by all rights, your daddy _should_ get angry at them, if he’s half a brain in his head. Not about – ” he grasped for the right turn of phrase, and found none, “ – mean haircuts given by fucking Clive.”

Oh, damn it. Probably shouldn't have said fuck to a little girl.

A tiny, abashed smile spread across her apple-cheeked face. “That’s a bad word.”

“I know,” Francis said dryly, and played this off as nothing more than him being cool. “He’s a bad bully.”

Soft footsteps in the hallway were followed by a knock at the door as Jopson returned to the room, without the teapot this time. “Everyone still all right in here?”

“More or less,” sighed Francis, and gave Alice an amused look. “Except for that damn Clive. Going to give him a piece of our minds later, aren’t we?”

She actually smiled at this, even as she curled her cut braid back into one fist, and covered this fist with her free hand.

“Maybe you could take me home first?”

“Absolutely,” said Thomas, who seemed deeply relieved as he brushed his long dark fringe away from his face. “Let’s just find a piece of paper so I can write down your address, and we’ll get the bus back with you. Walk you to your door, make sure you get home safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Alice Fitzjames Charlewood was one of JFJ's goddaughters - the second kiddo of his best friend Edward. She's his namesake since the Franklin Expedition was already lost by the time she was born. (Wah.) Figured any modern fic would have those nice boys married. Switched the names and here we are!
> 
> Plot bunny is based on [this article about uncles for hire in Korea](https://boingboing.net/2018/09/15/violence-inherent-in-the-syste.html) that I saw a few weeks back. Just imagined Francis Crozier going full typhoon rage on a jerky kid bully, and the rest filled itself in!
> 
> I imagine Francis wearing some version of [this](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/director-zeb-moore-and-actor-jared-harris-arrive-at-the-16th-annual-picture-id470897280) forever, and Jopson resembling Brendon Urie (of Panic! at the Disco).


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Francis was at his desk reading up on the latest hybrid magnetic motor recently showcased in Japan, wondering if he and Blanky could figure out a decent working prototype from two pictures and and a bloody Japanese press release, when a commotion out front stopped him cold.

_“ – the hell have you been doing with my daughter?”_

All Jopson had time to do was push the intercom button. “Sir, Alice’s father is – ”

The man who appeared in Francis’s doorway was tall and classically handsome, with long dark hair and vaguely fashionable clothes: dark slim jeans, a patterned suit vest over a collared shirt, and a blazer with patches on the elbows. Looked like a professor.

So it was a surprise when the first thing this posh professor did was rush Francis and clock him in the face, knocking into him and sending them both heels-over-arse into the floor.

Oh, the hell with that!

_“Get off me!”_

They each got in one or two decent blows apiece, and tussled on the floor for a long few seconds more before a blast of freezing cold wet foam from above made Francis recoil and snap his head up to see what the hell had just happened.

Above them, Jopson held the fire extinguisher in two hands, pointing the nozzle from one man to the other with a mutinous glare as a fog of foam dissipated around the room. “Stop fighting, damn it!”

“Come on. You’ve ruined my new jacket!” yelped the stranger as he shoved Francis away with one enormous hand.

“Well, you deserve it!” Jopson snarled. Still brandishing the fire extinguisher, he sounded far less like his usual self and more like Francis in one of his typhoon tempers. “Now, sit there and shut up this instant, both of you!”

_“Jopson.”_

Francis was interrupted by a _fuck-off-right-now_ glare, as his assistant refused to budge.

“No! Sir, you need to understand why Alice’s dad’s here yelling at you, instead of throwing sucker punches at a little girl’s worried father! Honestly, this is _worse_ than drunken street brawling!”

Low blow. Francis folded his arms across his chest in a mutinous way.

“Hang on one – ” began Alice’s father.

“And you!” Jopson gave the stranger a scorching glare; the man shrank back on reflex. “Don’t you dare storm in here screaming at Mister Crozier about impropriety; he’s done nothing wrong! He’s the one who got Alice to tell us why she’d got off the bus in the first place, which apparently, you’re too daft to ask about!”

“Well, I – ”

“Oh, come on, Jopson, we didn’t even – ”

“No,” retorted Thomas, quieter this time, and glanced back at the stranger again. “Why d’you think your Alice came here, eh?”

“I don’t know, damn it!” The professor scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “Because she wouldn’t’ve just – ”

“She’s being fucking _bullied_ , is what,” Francis cut in with a growl.

In an instant, the tension dropped out of the room. Alice’s father lowered his hand to stare at Francis, wide-eyed.

“Bullied?”

“Christ above. Have you not fucking seen it, then?”

A visible flash of fear rippled through the father’s face, darkening his eyes. “What happened? Who did it? Did they hurt her?”

“Calm down. Didn’t you see her?” Francis asked again, less forceful this time.

“No. I – I just got off a flight this morning. Business in L.A. She was staying with a friend, for god’s sake. I swear I didn’t know. They never said a word, just said she wandered off. I’d have done something that instant! I’d have – Christ. I’d have _done something._ ”

Sighing, Jopson walked over to Francis’s desk, picked up the small security envelope sitting next to the phone, and put this into the stranger’s hands. Alice’s father practically ripped it open. When he saw his daughter’s little braid lying inside, still with the yellow ribbon wrapped around it, he sagged backwards, and his face drained of all color.

“Little shit called Clive cut it on the bus,” said Francis. “So she got off early, and came and hid here.” He cleared his throat. “Thought he’d stay away ‘cause it’s a garage.”

Speechless, staring down at the evidence of such petty cruelty, Alice’s father balled up both braid and envelope in one hand, shielded his face from view with the other, and made a pained, possibly tearful, noise.

Grimacing at this sudden turn of events, Francis glanced askance at Jopson, who glared back, and made a shooing motion, as if to say _go and help him._

With a sigh, Francis turned back to face this man, just as Jopson exited the room and shut the door behind him.

“S – sorry,” Alice’s father finally said after several seconds, and raised his head. His chin quivered, and a single tear streaked down one sharp cheek as he touched her lock of hair with two fingers, soft and reverent. “God, those little baby curls. Edward couldn’t bear the thought of cutting her hair. Promised him I wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” said Francis, although he didn’t understand.

“My late husband,” the man finally elaborated, loudly clearing his throat. “He was in an – an accident. Two years ago. And – and so Alice and I are on our own now, and I can’t – ”

“Oh,” Francis said again, stupidly, as a few of the pieces clicked together in his mind. Single father. Widower. Or whatever the gay equivalent was of losing a husband. “Well. You – you couldn’t’ve known.”

“I _should_ have done.”

“No.” Awkwardly, after a long hesitation, Francis clapped him on the arm in an attempt to stop him from crying again, like he’d have done to a junior officer under his command. “Took us ages to find out, ourselves. She wouldn’t say a word. Just – fled the bus, and snuck in through the back bay.”

“God.” The man let out a broken laugh. “Course she did.”

“Well.” Francis removed his hand, scratched at his hair through a veil of slick, oily foam. “She’s a tough little thing, really. Tried to boot us out of our own breakroom.”

The man exhaled a deep, mournful sigh, and finally met Francis’s gaze. His dark eyes were shot through with embarrassment. “I really am sorry, ah – about everything.”

“‘S fine.”

“No, it isn’t. And I shouldn’t’ve just – but you know what people are like.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything could’ve happened. And that would’ve – ” the man made that low, pained noise again, like a bird whose wings had just been clipped. His eyes went distant. “Just killed me. If anything happened to her, I couldn’t go on.”

“Right,” said Francis, and flicked a bit of dangling foam off the idiot’s ear to get him to stop dwelling on the worst-case scenario. The man exclaimed in surprise, and put a hand to his head. “Well, lucky for you, she came here first. And she’s all right, really. Apart from that damned Clive, who deserves a good kick in the sack.”

The professor was still staring at Francis as if he could not believe his ears.

“And I – s’pose I could forget that you decked me.” A long, exaggerated sigh. “Just this once.”

“Are you two still fighting in there?” came a faux-stern voice from outside.

Francis rolled his eyes before trying to explain. “Jopson – my assistant Thomas, that is, won’t leave us alone till we shake hands.”

“I heard that,” Jopson grumbled through the door.

Alice’s father seemed a bit more cheered, now.

Francis got to his feet with a groan, and after a second of thought, reached out one hand to help the other man up from the floor.

“Thanks.” The stranger tucked long hair behind one ear, adjusting his foam-flecked jumper after he got to his feet. “Sorry. I, ah, never caught your name.”

“Francis.”

“James.”

They clasped hands again.

 

##

 

After a quick wash-up in the utility shower, a fresh change of clothes, and a couple of awkward apologies, Francis and James did the only thing you could do after trying to beat each other’s faces in over a misunderstanding.

They went to lunch at a cafe around the corner.

“D’you mind if I drink?” James cast a longing look at the bar, as their waiter arrived at the table with a couple of still waters. “I’d kill for a gin and tonic.”

Francis bit back a laugh. No danger there. “If that’s it, by all means.” He put down his menu. “O’Doul’s for me, thanks.”

They ordered, and the waiter departed; James gave him a surprised look.

“Nothing else?”

“AA,” Francis explained, and hooked a thumb under the chain still around his neck, so James could see the colorful chip dangling from it. Under the collar of a freshly-pressed dress shirt that was too taut in the chest, the chip nearly tapped the hollow of his throat. “Five years, now.”

“Oh, Christ.” James scrubbed both hands over his face, looking horrified. He was wearing one of Blanky’s faded death metal t-shirts under his damp professor’s jacket. The words _Black Sabbath: World Tour 1978_ kept rippling into view every now and then. “And I’ve offered you _liquor_. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Gin was never my drink. Only whiskey.” A pause; he shrugged off the rest of this sentence in an attempt to fill the awkward silence. “After giving that up, the worst part of it was trying to convince myself I believed in God.”

“Generally, I liked the idea of God.” Surprisingly, James warmed to such serious discussion almost instantly. “Always the preachers and the people I couldn’t stand, to be honest.”

“Too right.”

After a few minutes, the drinks came, and they continued talking. Two hours later, they hadn’t budged an inch; James had moved on to his second, fully watered-down gin and tonic and Francis to an enormous mug of rotgut black coffee.

“ _You_ were in the service. Christ almighty.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” James ran a hand through still-damp hair. “Did twenty years, and accidentally found a second career before I could apply for command board. Enlisted too young, though. Fourteen.” At Francis’s shocked look. “Told ‘em I was sixteen.”

“Good god. Who bought _that_ crock of shit?”

“Ah. I was always tall.” A snort of amusement. “How long were you in, then?”

“Twenty five for me.” Francis patted the table edge above his left leg. “Weren’t for the broken femur at my last post, I’d still be. ‘S where I met Jopson and Blanky.”

By the time James had finished his drink, and Francis drained his coffee, they had moved on to the most important topic of all: Alice’s bully.

“Henry says his wife’s friend Liv says there’s a boy named Clive at their son’s junior school.” James had been glued to his phone for nearly twenty minutes, texting like a madman. “Just down the way from the primary. Least, if Meera's friend’s son Rashad’s thinking of the right idiot from the bus. Can’t be that many in this district, eh?”

“Well, bugger it, then,” Francis said. That small frisson of anger had come back into his stomach, focused squarely on whatever mealy-mouthed shithead thought it was all right to torment a little girl. “We’ll go and tell that damn Clive that if he lays a finger on your daughter again, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Hang on. You’re not serious.”

“Course I bloody well am,” Francis got to his feet with a scoff. “They don’t know me.”

 

##

 

Half-drunk on two pathetic cocktails thanks to the jet lag, and grasping onto Francis’s middle for dear life as they zipped down the high street on a vintage Vincent Black Prince, there was a moment where James was sure this spectacularly insane plan was going to backfire. He had never once thought any of his own plans would backfire, even the riskiest ones. Distributing seditionary leaflets to Kurdish troops in the Gulf? Not a problem. Diving into the Mediterranean fully-clothed to save a civilian from drowning? Easy as you please. But this was different. Granted, he was used to executing said mad plans, not simply being along for the ride, but there was a new exhilaration to participating in someone else’s harebrained schemes, for once. Particularly when that man was as confounding and genuinely intimidating as one Mister Francis Crozier.

As they pulled up on the street next to the school, and Francis parked in the nearest space, James could not help noticing how much attention the Irishman drew from both students and parents as they turned off the engine. He barely remembered to let go of Francis’s waist so the man could safely dismount; with the dark leather jacket, faded jeans, windswept hair, and aviator sunglasses, he was as confident as if he’d been born in the saddle.

A group of four girls in their school uniforms, probably only a couple of years older than Alice, gawked visibly at them both as James awkwardly got off the bike after Francis, pulled off his helmet, and placed it onto the seat. One of the girls pulled down her sunglasses, and blew a giant pink bubble with her chewing gum as she watched them approach the gate. It popped loudly, and a spare bit of string flung itself onto the kitten-sticker covered binder she had clutched to her blouse, seconds before she snapped the wad of gum back into her mouth.

“That’s him.” James pointed to a pale, chipmunk-cheeked boy lounging against the school gates with a few friends. Matched the picture Henry had sent over. “Grey trainers.”

“Hmph.” One corner of Francis’s mouth twitched up. “He does look like a walrus, actually.”

 

##

 

That night, Francis was half-asleep on the sofa watching telly when he got a text from an unknown number. Sitting up, he opened the message and saw two pictures.

The first: a shocking amount of brown and blonde-streaked hair lying in a pile on the floor next to a pair of clippers. The second: a picture of James and Alice, both sporting new and very short haircuts. Alice’s was delicate and swoopy in a Tinkerbell sort of way. James’s was simply different. Vaguely modern. Looked nice, if a bit jarring.

His phone buzzed again. A third message came through.

_What we got up to after Alice came home. What do you think?_

Thinking for a moment, Francis typed out a reply.

_I like Alice’s hair_

_Glad you’ve ditched the Victorian look, yourself._

The reply was near-instantaneous.

_Don’t sound so delighted, you’ll break my heart._

_Perhaps you’d better see it in person before passing final judgment. Alice wants to thank you for the other day. You could drop by, and we’ll order something in?_

Followed by a couple of food symbols.

Well. Francis couldn’t say no to a good meal, could he?

 

##

 

A few days later, Henry sent the video over within minutes of receiving it from another parent, with the endearingly-dickish caption

 

> _can’t believe you haven’t gotten in trouble for this_
> 
> _mrs. anstruther just says you look horrified_
> 
> _but i know that gobsmacked face_
> 
> _and meg’s friend with the kitten obsession says she saw you on the back of that bike_

Paired with several martini glasses, a Home Alone and crying-laughing face, and some other emojis James’s phone couldn’t decipher.

 

> _also: hellooooo, daddy_
> 
>  

And a smirking devil emoji.

James did not dignify this taunt with a response. But he did send the video along to Francis, who must have been at his desk and not in the shop, as he phoned back immediately.

“Christ above. Look like I’ve got twelve chins.”

“You do not. Although you should let me take you jeans shopping. Sure your next girlfriend would appreciate it, even if you don’t.”

“Rather murder myself, thanks.” A laugh. “What are you up to, then?”

“Just writing.” Wistfully, James glanced out at the street, where a skiff of autumn leaves had just gotten stirred up by the wind. He’d been at the laptop for nearly two hours, and had fuck-all to show for it. “Failing at it, really. You?”

“Tune-ups,” said Francis with a sigh. “Blanky’s not blown us all to bits – yet.”

 _“Heard that, you twat!”_ came a distant voice on the other end of the line. _“Tell your new boyfriend to bring back my favorite shirt, eh?”_

Francis’s reply was swift and immediate. “Shut your fucking gob, you fucking Tyke halfwit!” Quieter, vaguely abashed. “Sorry about that.”

 _“Eyup, Jamie,”_ came the cheerful reply in the background.

James laughed despite himself. Francis’s best friend and chief mechanic had turned out to be charmingly endearing. Alice had the old Yorkshireman wrapped around her little finger already. “Hallo, Tom, you old flirt.”

Francis growled out an annoyed noise, but covered the mouthpiece to relay this message. “James says hello back, and that your goddamned shirt’s in rags.”

_“Better not be.”_

“Anyway. Banishments from primary schools aside, you still coming by for supper?” James toyed with a paperclip sitting on his desk, and tried not to think about how much he’d looked forward to tonight. “Alice is asking after you.”

Which was technically true. She’d enjoyed last week’s gathering very much.

“What? Yeah. Still free after seven. S’pose I could pick up some takeaway.”

“Can you be persuaded to eat pizza again?” asked James slyly.

“Only if mine’s got french fries and Oreos,” retorted Francis.

“Hang on a second, sorry, just need to vomit first.” James made an exaggerated retching noise, and smirked when he heard the disgusted exclamation on the other end of the line. “All right, go ahead, order your devil’s pie.”

“Sausage and peppers for me,” said Francis calmly, like he was writing this down on a scrap of paper, “and veggie for you two.”

“And the cheesy bread.”

“Of course the cheesy bread.”

A wolfish grin had spread across James’s face. “See you after seven, then.”

After he hung up, he thumbed back to the video, and rewound it until he got to the best part of Francis’s tirade. Clive had just tried to outwit the man and had failed completely.

 _I’ll tell my daddy about this, you great ugly brute!_ The little boy was sobbing out enormous fake tears, which weren’t visible from this angle, as his back was to the camera. _He won’t let you yell at me like this! He’s a Tory MP!_

 _Good!_ thundered the Irishman, with no small amount of fiendish glee. _I’ll camp out in front of his fancy bloody office with a goddamned megaphone and about ninety of my ugliest mates, so every Lord Tom Dickie-Harry-Jones who walks past is gonna hear me shouting A LITTLE BULLY’S SHIT-FOR-BRAINS FATHER WORKS HERE!_

_With a loud wail, Clive sprinted out of picture, followed by a couple of little friends. On camera, Francis dropped the show of temper at once, and turned to James, who was covering his mouth with two hands in an attempt to keep from laughing._

_“Too much, do you reckon?” he asked after a moment._

_The James of the video turned away and doubled over in delight, as the video blurred and ground to a stop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline is fuzzy and hand wavy, but let's be honest, no one's here for that. 
> 
> And IDK why, but I picture Francis's garage as being like, a kaleidoscope of weird sci-fi looking shit, old car memorabilia, and, like, Royal Navy recruiting posters. Plus whatever random articles Blanky's found and fixed up! Hubcaps with neon rims, etc.
> 
> "French fries and Oreos" is a reference from a movie Jared Harris was in a billion years ago, called Mr. Deeds! Thought it was appropriate for a good dad joke.


	3. Chapter 3

_six months later_

 

 

Staggering to the front door, dressed in only a t-shirt and ratty boxers, James gingerly pulled it open and saw Francis standing on his stoop, clearly ready to leave for the day, and too damn chipper for words.

Where was he going?

“Good god, man.” When he saw James, Francis pulled a rather disgusted face, and all the cheer disappeared from his expression. “It’s nearly nine thirty. Have you died?”

“What? No. Alice’s, erm, got the flu.” James was just tired, that was all. He leaned against the doorframe to keep standing, as he wasn’t sure his shaky legs would support him for very long. Unfortunately, his searing headache had got worse since breakfast. Or what he’d been able to keep down of breakfast. Or was that dinner? Watching someone sick their guts up all night didn’t sit well on the stomach. Was he going to pass out? “What’re you even doing – ”

Without a word, Francis reached out and pressed one freckled hand to James’s forehead. His palm was cold against his skin. Felt nice. His eyes slipped closed.

“Jesus Christ. You’re burning up.”

“‘M not really sick,” James mumbled, and suppressed an ill-timed cough. “Just tired.”

“The hell you are.” Francis steered him inside. “Get back in bed before you infect the whole block.”

 _Not sick._ James wasn’t sure if he said this out loud as they staggered toward the sitting room, Francis practically carrying him the last few feet to the sofa. _Only tired. Alice’s been puking all night._

“She missed school today,” he clarified aloud.

Francis gave him a weird look.

Blinking, James was shocked to find himself now lying on the sofa, with Alice lying just next to him on the opposite end. Her little head lolled against his crown. And Francis was now draping a giant quilt over his legs.

“Don’t you dare move.” With a sigh, Francis pressed his hand to James’s cheek again before moving to the other end of the couch. “Hello, love. You and your daddy aren’t feeling very well, are you?”

“Francis.” Alice whimpered, barely audible. “My tummy hurts.”

“Small wonder.” Another sigh. “Let’s see if we can find you some ginger ale, hm?”

James wanted to protest, to insist that everything was fine and that Francis could go, but his head spun like a top every time he tried to turn to the left, and so eventually he just closed his eyes, just to rest them for a moment.

Several minutes later, he heard a beep from the other end of the sofa.

“Hundred and two?! Good god.” A rustling noise; James opened his eyes to see Francis standing above him, now, with the children’s thermometer in one hand. “All right, James. Stay still, and we’ll get yours next.”

James felt a slight pressure as the thermometer was inserted into his right ear.

“‘S like a tentacle,” he said after a minute, certain that this would make sense to Francis. “Feels weird on m’brain. Do – do octopuses feel your brains, Francis?”

They shouldn’t do that. They live in the ocean and brains’re – brains’re – not saltwater things. Can’t pickle ‘em. Or maybe you could. Can people eat brains? Like the mummies. Didn’t they scramble your brains an’ yank ‘em out your nose?

“Hundred and four,” sighed Francis, and suddenly, the pressure in James’s ear had gone, replaced by a tight, tense throbbing all through his head and neck. “And no, no one’s scrambled your brain. Though you may as well have, with that fever.”

“D’it give me an earring?” asked James through a haze of heat. Maybe he could pull it off this time. “How’s it look?”

“Very daring. Give me your phone,” Francis brushed a stray lock of hair away from James’s face. “Calling the doctor.”

“No hospital,” mumbled James, and pushed his hand away. “No!”

“Paediatrician,” said Francis after a few seconds, and touched his face again. “Alice needs to go.”

Yeah, all right. Fumbling for his phone around the blankets, and swiping one finger across the screen in a hazy way, James lay back down and drifted in and out as Francis continued milling around the room. After awhile, he didn’t even want to get up, just listened to Alice’s stuffy little breaths and the sound of Francis on the phone, talking to whoever was on the other end.

Without warning, his stomach turned, and suddenly he was lying on his side on the floor, covered in sick and unable to stop retching.

“It’s all right, James.” Someone was helping him sit up, now; his stomach roiled again, and he vomited into the shallow trash bin that was now sitting next to the sofa. “There we are.”

Between coughs, James shuddered and sweated and clung to the strong arms that held him fast. “Francis – is Alice – ”

“She’s all right.”

“‘Cause I – think I may be coming down with something after all,” he slurred, and had to hang over the trash bin again for several minutes. “Really don’t feel well.”

“Noticed, did you?” came the answer after Francis helped James back against the cushions. “Here. We’re going to go on a little drive now.”

“Mmkay. Don’t leave me here, though.”

“No.” A soft laugh. “Promise I won’t. You’re coming along, too.”

 

##

 

Pausing just outside exam 2, Harry noticed two charts in the plastic intake tray, one of which was for a forty-four year old man, and gave Fairholme a puzzled look.

“Father and daughter,” his ANP explained.

Sighing, Harry glanced over the information, put on his best face, and opened the door.

“Hello, all. Which one of you is Alice?”

The little girl lying on the exam table glanced up, glassy-eyed. “Hi.”

“Hi there. I’m Doctor Goodsir, in case you don’t remember me from last time,” he told her, and turned toward the seats, where a peaky, gangly man rested his head on the shoulder of the craggy-looking fellow next to him. “You must be Mister Fitzjames. As well as Mister – ”

“Crozier,” murmured the second man, and stuck out his hand to shake Harry’s.

“Oh, yes, you’re, ah – ” he consulted James’s chart, and found the name Crozier under emergency contacts “ – the husband?”

“No,” murmured the man, and went a little pink. “Friend.”

Hm. Goodsir wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

“Right. Well.” He went to wash his hands, then took up his chart again. “How, ah, long have Alice and James been ill?”

“Couple of days, I think.” Crozier scratched at his jaw, turned to the man next to him. “James, didn’t you say she missed school Friday?”

“Mm hm,” came the groaned answer.

“Right. So I think it started Thursday night, and kept up through last night. And then this idiot – ” a pointed glance down at James’s head “ – answers the door this morning looking like death, so ill he can’t even walk or keep down ice chips.”

“I _can_ too,” countered James, who promptly sat up, blanched, and then put his head back down on the other man’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Oh, Christ.”

“Room spinning again?”

The taller man made a pained noise, and shivered visibly, curling into Crozier’s side despite the absurdly-small size of the chairs. “No.”

Goodsir suppressed a smile at the banter, and crossed over to where Alice lay on the exam table, quickly explaining to her how a doctor’s examination worked, and what he would have to check for: regular heartbeat, regular breaths, belly pain, condition of the eyes, ears, and throat, and general reflexes.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He listened to her heart, which was high, but within normal limits, given the fever. Breathing: congestion but no pneumatic symptoms. No swollen lymph nodes. No signs of strep. No rash or skin discoloration.

“All right, Alice, you’re doing wonderfully. Now, I need to feel your tummy and down your sides to make sure everything inside your body is okay. This will only take a moment.”

No sign of ascites or other abdominal swelling. Focused on checking for hard nodes, or places of pain, he nearly missed the girl’s soft wheeze of amusement as he palpated a gentle path down her obliques.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You’ve got tickly spider fingers,” she told him with a tiny smile.

“Spider fingers?” His face split into a grin. “Fairly certain my hands are made of muscle and bone, not _spiders_.”

He tickled her side again with the same hand, more purposefully this time. She giggled a little, and squirmed to one side.

“All right, I’ll stop,” Harry told her kindly, as he stepped back. “We’re all finished.”

This was something Harry loved about treating children. Even when they were truly ill, they always managed to find joy in the smallest moments.

“Well, Mister Fitzjames. Mister Crozier.” He removed his sterile gloves and threw them away. “I’d say it is the flu, just a strain she’s not had before, which might explain the high fever. Her symptoms should fade within a couple of days, once the medicine’s brought that temperature down.”

Crozier looked as if he’d aged a decade in the process of this explanation. “Thank god. Didn’t know what to do – never seen something like this.”

“No, no, you did the correct thing, bringing her in.” Goodsir wrote out his prescription on the chart, along with the diagnosis, and began writing out the prescription slip for Crozier to take. “But children are very resilient, and I don’t think this is anything out of the ordinary. She ought to be feeling better in no time.”

“And this one?” Crozier glanced to Fitzjames, who was half-asleep on his shoulder.

“I’ll examine him. Here. If you could please take her?”

Alice seemed very happy to go lie down in Crozier’s arms with her blanket while Goodsir guided her father to the exam table.

“Francis, this’s stupid. ‘M fine,” he mumbled, as Goodsir checked eyes, ears, throat, and reflexes. He was in far worse condition than his daughter.

“No, you aren’t,” countered the boyfriend over Alice’s shoulder. Least one of them was sensible as to the danger. “Not even sure you know what year it is, to be honest.”

“Course I do.” At Goodsir’s urging, Fitzjames lay back on the table. “It’s – ”

“Oh, bloody hell,” came the exclamation from the corner; Goodsir paused his examination and turned to stare at Crozier, who was staring at his phone with horrified eyes. “Sorry. It’s – James, we’ll just pop out for a moment, all right?”

“Don’t want to go out tonight,” answered Fitzjames with another groan, as Crozier left the room. “‘M too tired.”

 

##

 

Placing Alice down on one of the empty benches in the intake room, next to the colorful height chart still taped to the wall, Francis paced back and forth in front of the hideous orange-and-yellow-topped counters.

“Yes, I know I’m bloody well supposed to be at the f –  _frigging_ show with you! But what the hell else was I god – ” he glanced down at Alice, who was watching him in a bleary way, and shifted gears, “ – for Christ’s sake, Thomas, James’s so feverish I’m surprised his head hasn’t burst into flames. And Alice’s chilled to the bone. And I’ll not just let them languish alone in their sickbeds all weekend!”

Jopson sounded astonished. “I – no one’s _asking_ you to?”

“Good, because I’m not leaving them!” Francis boomed, then realized he might be overdoing it, given that he was currently in a paediatrician surgery, and other, non-feverish children could walk past at any moment and become terrified by the loud screaming man. He lowered his voice. “I mean – you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” said Jopson, faintly.

In all honesty, Francis was not at all sure what he meant, other than that James was his friend, and he clearly needed someone, and so the choice was already made. But thankfully, Jopson did not press for further explanation.

“Sorry,” Francis offered lamely. “Know it’s – I can come by tomorrow, if you still need a hand. Once James gets his legs back under him.”

“No. Don’t – don’t worry about it. We’ve got everything handled with the booth.” A pause. “Just concentrate on taking care of them.”

“Fine,” snapped Francis, although this was exactly the response he’d been hoping for. “Anyway. I – not sure when I’ll be home, so don’t bother phoning the flat. May kip on the sofa at James’s tonight, just in case. Just, er, text me if you need something.”

“Won’t. But keep your phone charged,” said Jopson with a huff, and hung up.

Rolling his eyes, Francis almost collided with another doctor, a sharp-faced, dark-haired woman in a white coat, as he turned back to go and get Alice.

“Oh! Sorry.”

She held up a hand in a gesture of understanding, then signed something very quickly in ASL. _That’s all right. You were pacing so much my desk kept shaking._

Francis winced, and luckily remembered enough sign to reply back. _Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout._

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. _You speak ASL?_

_A bit. Picked it up in the service._

“Doctor Kalvak?” came a voice from down the opposite corridor, where a man in scrubs was waving.

Immediately, she turned, and strode away toward her assistant, taking the chart from him and stepping into the exam room.

 

##

 

“Are you scared of hospital, James?”

Regarding him very seriously for someone who was currently being spoon-fed chicken broth on the sofa, and was wearing only a faded t-shirt with the words SIZE QUEEN screenprinted on it in neon glitter letters, as well as pink pajama pants, James just gave Francis a disgruntled look. Couldn’t pull it off, considering how ill he was; none of his muscles seemed like they wanted to work, so he just ended up looking nearsighted.

“Who said I was?”

“Well, you nearly cracked me in the jaw when I suggested going to C&E,” said Francis mildly, staring down into the watery broth as he stirred it round the bowl. Salt and seasoning swirled around the bottom. “And again at the paediatrician’s.”

“Come off it, Francis. Nobody _likes_ hospital,” said James, and glanced mournfully at the bowl; Francis scooped up a bit more broth, leaned forward, and placed the spoon to James’s lips so he could drink.

“True.”

A long pause; Francis sat back while James swiped a trickle of broth from the side of his mouth with his sleeve.

“Spent two straight weeks in ICU when Edward died. Erm. He was on a ventilator after the crash. Just – wasting away. I nearly went mad.”

“Hmph,” said Francis, and turned around the bowl with the handle facing forward so James could spoon his own soup out, if he wanted.

He did; hand wobbling like mad as he brought the spoon to his mouth. “In the early days, every time either one of us got so much as a sniffle, we’d go spare.”

Francis stayed quiet.

“That was all we thought about when we first got together. Everyone was dying left and right. Er. I don’t know if you had friends who – I mean, the second you caught a fever, you wondered if you were next. And after a little while, the antivirals came through. At that point, we felt lucky. Neither of us were positive. Thought we’d beaten the worst of it, you know?”

Still, Francis said nothing.

“After a while, we decided to settle down. File for partnership. Start a family.” A bitter, low laugh. “He wanted Alice more than anything in the world.”

“Knowing you? I don’t believe it.”

“‘S true.” A ghost of a smile came to James’s face. “He was the one who convinced me to just go for it. Oh, he was a natural with her, Francis. You should’ve seen him. Just – so happy to have that little bit of love.”

Tentatively, Francis reached out, and covered James’s free hand. James regarded him with soft, bleary eyes.

“He’d be proud of you, James.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you’re a damn good father, and a damn good man.” Francis ducked his head on a smile. “Even if you won’t take your flu medicine as the doctor ordered.”

James narrowed his eyes, regarded the outstretched soup bowl with vague horror. “If you’ve snuck those foul-tasting pills into my soup, I’ll tackle you to the floor right now.”

“I haven’t! Go on, then.” Francis started to laugh. “You can barely raise your hand to your eyes, you daft git.”

 

##

 

James could not have said how many hours or days passed between when he was sicking his guts up and when he woke up next; only that one minute, he felt like he was on his damn deathbed, and the next, he woke up on the sofa and saw Francis and Alice snuggled together in the floor amid an enormous blanket and pillow nest. The beginning of _Moana_ was playing on the large TV. Several empty bowls were scattered around the sofa. And a plastic bottle of – ginger ale? – was lying against his own pillow.

Also, he was bloody fucking _freezing._

“Move over,” he muttered, dragging the quilt down from the sofa and crawling up to Francis’s other side; the Irishman squinted over at him in bleary surprise. Might’ve even been asleep, himself. “‘M cold.”

“Come on, then,” was all Francis muttered, and lifted his arm so James could have more room; James lay down and lowered his head to Francis’s shoulder, curling in tightly as he tossed the rest of the thick blanket somewhere around his legs and feet.

“Christ. Your fingers are frigid.”

“S - sorry,” gulped James.

“‘S all right.” Francis shifted his weight, drew James a little closer with his free arm, and suddenly James swore he felt a small, light kiss being pressed into his hair. Maybe that was just the fever. “We’ll warm you up, won't we?”

 

##

 

Even half-asleep, and vaguely aware that he was dreaming, some part of Francis’s mind was alert enough to be suspicious of his surroundings.

Lying on a giant hospital bed in the middle of a seemingly-empty marble hall, naked save for his pants, he shielded a half-clothed James close to his body the way a lover might, one hand sliding up the man’s long shirt so the man’s heartbeat hammered under his palm.

Tucked into Francis’s side like a small spoon, James did not say a word, just stared out at a point or a person on the horizon that Francis could not glimpse, and just kept curling closer, wordless.

 _I’ve got you,_ Francis kept thinking, determined to face their faceless horrors head-on if necessary. For James. _I’ve got you._

Oddly, this smoke-and-mirrors version of Francis – a version of himself who was like and yet not like him at all – wanted very desperately to kiss the back of James’s neck, where a soft tuft of dark hair curled out toward one ear. Against him, James was warm and inviting and angled in all the right places, and they huddled together with surprising ease. He kept stroking one hand over Francis’s arm in a light, drowsy fashion, as if they were simply going to close their eyes and fall asleep.

Why did he feel so protective towards James? What was he missing? And why did everyone else seem to know it but him?

When Francis awoke, he was alone in his bed, and it was pouring rain outside his window. He couldn’t remember how the dream had ended, or why, and felt unreasonably cheated by said fact all morning, until Jopson called him out for excessive sulking and demanded he join in on the group lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes: Goodsir as a pediatrician was so damn adorable I couldn't help giving him a moment to shine. He and Silna totally met through a medical conference in Nunavut or something. (She is named for Helen Kalvak, [a cool shaman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Kalvak) who is from Ulukhaktok. This region was "discovered" by the British when a dude named Holman came searching for the Franklin party in 1853.
> 
> Sick James and Francis taking care of him and Alice = heart eyes.
> 
> In my mind, Francis's motorbike show is similar to [this](http://www.classicshows.org/festival-of-1000-classic-cars/), but way less posh. Thinking it's a bit campy and ridiculous, sort of [like this.](http://dubsofanarchy.co.uk) My other headcanon is that Blanky probably puts together elaborate cosplays and goes as a steampunk wizard or Gene Simmons or some shit, every year without fail. And Francis probably loves it even though he gets Peopled Out for like a month afterwards.


	4. Chapter 4

Checking his watch as he trotted up the stairs to James’s stoop, Francis adjusted the half-full paper bag balanced in his other arm. He’d forgotten to buy bread this morning, and had to stop off at the grocer after lunch. Midway through the shop, he’d realized this was just about the time James took his tea break before going to pick up Alice from school. So he’d got a couple of triple chocolate-chip cookies and a few pastries, and decided to stop by James’s unannounced, see what he was up to.

Knocking on the door before he opened it, as was his custom, Francis peeked his head around the corner and called out. “James? Hello?”

“Francis? Come in, we’re just having a coffee.”

There were other voices in the kitchen; Francis did not think too much about this until he was standing by the cupboard and staring at a fey dark-haired man in a smart suit, perhaps one or two years younger than James.

A handsome man who was sitting at the tall counter, and who had just thumped James on the hand like a playful flirt.

“Don’t eat the brownie, that’s mine.”

Between them sat a plate of assorted cakes and treats.

“Brute,” laughed James, with a roll of his eyes. He was still in his workout gear: taut black leggings and an oversized Royal Navy Glory sweatshirt. “Hello, Francis. Good to see you.”

Stepping forward, he drew Francis into a quick one-armed hug, tapping him on the shoulder before he drew back. Francis couldn't help noticing that James smelled vaguely fresh, like Arctic ice in summer – pleasantly green. Perhaps he’d just got out of the shower, and hadn’t gone for a run. 

Either way, his expression brightened considerably when he saw the parcel on Francis’s arm. “Oh, no. What on _earth_ have you brought me?”

“Well.” Francis shifted the bag to his other arm, shrugged a little. “Nothing much. Just a few things from the store. Didn’t know you’d have company.”

“Did you hear that, Henry?” asked James of the third man, a wolfish grin lighting up his face. “You’re company now, and you’d better behave like it.”

“Shan’t,” replied Henry with a smirk, as he broke the brownie in half with two hands, popped a small piece into his mouth, and sucked crumbs from his fingers. Francis noted, rather cruelly, that this man’s thin lips and cut jaw made him look like a starved horse from this angle. “So you’re the infamous Francis, hm?”

“ _ Henry.” _

Francis did not know what the hell this was supposed to mean. “Seems I must be.”

He could not have explained it for the world, but at that moment, he despised this Henry more than he’d ever hated another living person. Sitting there with his gelled-up hair and his grey tweed suit, smarmy and too bloody handsome, eating sweets at James’s kitchen counter like he fucking well lived here. 

All he could think was  _ get out. Get out. James is mine. _

“Nice to meet you.” Henry washed down his brownie with a sip of coffee, and dusted off his fingers on a nearby napkin. “I’m Meghan’s dad. Meera’s husband? James and I are on P.T.A. together. We were just shoring up for the next round of torture.”

Embarrassment washed over Francis like a wave of icy water. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Meghan who paints unicorns! Sorry.” Alice and Meghan did everything together. Meghan who had the bead kit and the curly hair. They had just gotten best friends necklaces – a cartoon peanut butter and jelly sandwich sliced in half – which was, apparently, an extremely serious step in the world of second year girls. “First I thought – erm – never mind.”

Although James had never introduced him to any new boyfriends in all the time they’d been mates, the very idea of meeting one of them, and having it be a man as foppish and flirtatious as Henry, had struck panic into Francis's heart.

“Francis. Glass of water?”

James was frowning at him as if he were stark raving mad. Which, Francis supposed, was not too far from the truth, if this was all he could dwell on. The possibility of meeting James's boyfriends. Why should he care about that?

“Yeah.” He tried to smile. “You know the Victoria line. Some – ruddy busker boffing people in the shoes with a cello.”

“If he got you, too, I’m surprised you’re not trailing bits of broken wood from here to Waterloo. Should’ve taken the bike. Watch yourself.” James handed him a glass of water, lightly brushing his palm over the middle of Francis’s back as he passed by to the opposite end of the kitchen, knelt down to a nearby cabinet, and opened the door. An outraged scoff echoed through the room as he reached one arm back into the cabinet. 

“Damn pasta pot’s stuck in the back again. Lid organizers were supposed to take care of this problem.”

Guffawing at the phrase  _ lid organizers _ , Henry immediately started taking the mickey out of James’s obsessive neatness.

This time, Francis barely heard a word. 

Even through the thick jacket, he could still feel James’s hand ghosting against his skin, hot as a brand. Goosebumps rippled up his arms, and heat rushed into his face. Oh, god, was he really blushing? Had anyone noticed? Had James noticed? 

Fucking  _ Henry  _ was probably going to crack a joke about this, too. Look at your weird mate who blushes every time you touch him. Someone's getting the wrong idea, hm?

Suddenly, Francis needed to be anywhere but here.

“Anyway, I, ah, can’t stay, but I thought you – I mean, you and Alice might – want something for dessert. Tea. After she gets home.”

“What? You’re sure?” James startled so visibly he knocked over the open box of spaghetti. Dry noodles were now sticking out of the pot and scattered across the stovetop. “Don’t be silly, Francis. You just got here. I’ll even cook for you.”

“No! I mean, thanks. I, erm, was going to get – toast. French toast. Tom and I are having breakfast later.” He rasped out a weak, horrifying excuse for a laugh. “Obsessed with bloody bacon, that one. Probably’ll make his heart explode.” Distantly, he realised he sounded insane. “Really should be off now. Nice to meet you, Henry.”

He let out that terrible laugh again, made some sort of awful noodle-armed wave in their direction, and positively sprinted for the door, realizing too late that he was still holding the bag of pastries in one hand.

_ You stupid fucking craven bastard! What the hell’s the matter with you? _

Panicked, he dropped the bag down onto the sidewalk as he quickly walked away.

“Francis?”

It was James; Francis whirled to see his friend, still clad in his workout gear, trampling down the stairs after him. Heat rushed into his cheeks as he watched James jog up to him. Oh, god. He liked looking at James’s legs. 

He liked looking at  _ James. _

Liked all the casual, friendly touches they shared, and how James always went out of his way to take care of him, no matter where they were. Liked how easy it was to spend time with him alone, or with James and Alice - the three of them had more fun together than anyone in the world. And Francis bloody fucking refused to share any of that with stupid Henry, feeling small and awkward and idiotic in that kitchen, when he’d thought James would be at home alone instead.

And he liked when James touched him. 

Jesus Christ.

“What’s the matter?” James reached him, clutched the elbow of Francis’s jacket in one fist. “Francis, why are you leaving?”

“I’m fine,” Francis choked out. This was a lie. “Really, just – ”

“No, you’re not! Please, talk to me. What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Francis gritted his teeth, suddenly afraid he might do something phenomenally stupid such as try to kiss James’s furrowed brow, or put a hand on his impossibly slight waist through that ugly sweatshirt, or very possibly burst into tears, like an exhausted child. “Just – melancholy, that’s all. It doesn’t matter.”

Worry flashed in James’s eyes. “Then we can talk. Or – or – Christ, I don’t know. Henry can take Alice for a bit after school, she’d probably love it; she – ”

“No. No. Let her come home and relax. She – you two should spend time together.”

“But I want  _ you _ to spend time with us,” James insisted quietly, grip tightening on Francis’s jacket.

Francis’s pulse was in his throat. That odd constricting feeling kept curling tight in his chest and his jaw and his stomach. “It’s really all right. Alice and Meghan can – can play – and you and Henry and whoever can – ”

“Oh, sod Henry!” James exclaimed, frustration edging into his voice. “He can fuck off home for all I care. Francis, please. Just – stay awhile.”

His dark eyes searched Francis’s, frantically darting everywhere in search of clues. Christ, Francis could never say no to that pleading look in the best of times. To do so now was nothing short of wrenching.

“I can’t. But I – I promise it’s fine, James. ‘M fine.” He swallowed hard, tried not to notice how handsome James looked now, with his hair glinting in the afternoon sunshine, even as the fraught furrow of his brow deepened between fright-wide eyes. “Just – wanted to see you, and I have, and I’m – I’ll just – take a walk now.”

With that, he removed James’s hand from his arm, and spun on his heel.

“Francis,” called James, louder this time. “Come on!”

He did not turn around. James did not follow.

  
  


##

 

“Oh, my god,” exclaimed Sophia Cracroft, the second she pulled open the door and saw Francis Crozier standing there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as if he’d just seen her less a few hours ago instead of nearly a year ago. She was due to be at the benefit in just under an hour, wearing ugly loose sweatpants and a paint-stained smock, with her hair pinned up in an elaborate updo. “Francis, have – have you been  _ drinking? _ ”

“No,” rasped Francis, and clenched his jaw. A muscle worked in his throat. He looked as if he were ready to fall to pieces. Hadn’t seen him this visibly upset since the last time he’d proposed to her, and that was nearly twenty years ago, now. “Just walking. I – Sophia, I – something’s – ”

“Babe?” came a voice from inside.

Sophia glanced sideways, saw Juliette edging down the stairs in her silk bathrobe with her short hair still wet from the shower, her expression a question. Quickly, Sophia shook her head no, and sliced one hand across her neck in a warning gesture before turning back to the door.  _ Don’t come down yet.  _

Juliette just nodded an assent, and turned around.

“Sophia, how did you know?” Francis finally blurted out, before drawing one hand up to his mouth in an anguished way. He did not seem to have heard Juliette’s voice at all. “I mean – did you just – ”

Good lord, he was babbling. She was going to need to cut to the point, and fast.

“Know  _ what _ , Francis?”

His reply was quiet but furious, as if she was supposed to know exactly what he was talking about. “That you were….that you wanted women, for god’s sake!”

Her mouth dropped open.

“You want to know how I – how I realised I was gay?” Good god. That would explain – well. A hell of a lot. “Are you fucking serious?”

His face pinched in a miserable way, and he nodded yes, once. It was at this point she noticed how red his eyes were behind his tinted sunglasses. Jesus. Had he been crying? Who would’ve made him cry? Was he dating someone? Why wouldn’t he have told her about a boyfriend, or a lover, something? Or had it even gone that far yet?

Fuck, of course he’d get all miserable and mopey over a man, as well.

“Well, come in and have some tea before you blub all over the street,” she said with a sigh, and motioned him inside. “Still got some time before the benefit starts.”

_ Aunt Jane can just forgive me for being horribly late. _

 

##

 

James texted Francis for nearly two hours straight following the pastry incident. 

In between getting Henry to pick up the girls from school, finishing dinner, and tending to the usual chaos of homework-playtime-dinnertime-bathtime before the LeVescontes went home and Alice went to bed, he couldn’t get his friend’s face out of his mind.

Francis had looked so strange and fragile on the street, as if a single wrong word might knock the breath of of him. And he wouldn’t talk about it. And James couldn’t for the life of him work out  _ why  _ the man had been so upset, or why he’d run out of the house so quickly _.  _ He never dropped in unannounced in the middle of the afternoon.

Had he got in a row with Blanky, just before? Or Jopson? Or – or – got bad news about the business? Surely not. They’d just had that antique bike convention, or whatever it was, nearly a month ago, and it had gone swimmingly. Jopson had talked about its success for weeks, positively glowing about new sales leads and email offers and all sorts of other ephemera.

Imagining all of the horrible possibilities that would drive Francis to to his door in the middle of the day, James guzzled down a glass of wine with dinner and just kept sending texts into the void, frantic with worry.

The only response he’d got back so far was a single reply, sent about an hour after Francis had gone.

> _ Hi, James, this is Sophia – Francis’s friend – he’s fine, he’s with me and my wife for a bit before going home. Don’t want you to worry. xx _

This did not, in fact, stop James from worrying. 

In fact, it only had him more concerned. Should he go to Francis’s flat, try to find out what had happened? Why couldn’t he be alone? Was he not simply melancholy, but truly depressed? Was he despondent? Suicidal? Good Christ.

In a panic, after several glasses of wine, he called Jopson to relay the entire confounding story.

“ – and the only message I got back was that he’s with Sophia and her wife, and I don’t even know why he’d have gone there. Or why he’s upset with me. Fuck! Is he honestly all right, Thomas? Has something serious happened? Good Christ. I just – I can’t stop thinking about the damn look on his face, you should have seen it, his eyes were so – ”

“James. Breathe,” said Thomas, very carefully. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No,” James huffed, but tried to exhale in a more purposeful way, drawing out the breath. His voice came out very small when he spoke again. “I’m just worried.”

“I know.”

“Sorry.” A tear dropped down his face; he rubbed the offending eye with one flat-palmed hand. “Stupid to think he’d care about that, right?”

A pause. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not like Francis. I don’t – for god’s sake, I’ve published one  bloody  book, and that’s all I’ve ever done apart from the service. I’m not anything special. He was an explorer. He built a business out of an – an engineering hobby. And he rides an antique motorbike that he rebuilt himself, for Christ’s sake! Why would he want to – ”

“You have feelings for him,” Thomas noted, quietly, like he’d known the truth all along. And he probably had. He was getting to be damned obvious about it. “Don’t you?”

Glumly, James just nodded, then realized Jopson couldn’t see this over the phone. 

“Yeah.”

“Right,” said Thomas, in a patently exasperated tone, this time. “Well, listen. I’ll not put words in the man’s mouth, but I’m going to tell you something that should help you understand a little better. All right?”

“Fine.” James put down his empty glass, and sat upright with a sniff. “Tell me what?”

“I’m getting to that. Captain – sorry. Old habit. What I mean to say is,  _ Francis _ doesn’t do things like this. Ever.”

“Things like this,” James repeated.

“Spending so much time with one person. Weekly dinners. Meeting their friends. Meeting their children.”

“Meeting their – ” a cold fear gripped James’s heart. “Oh, god, is it – Alice? He doesn’t like her?”

“No! It’s not that at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Jopson let out a deep breath. “James, he’s already working on her birthday present for next year.”

_ What? _

“But her – her birthday’s not till April.”

“I know. Which is why he’s also planning one for yours, first. And I’m sworn to absolute secrecy on that end, so don’t make me say any more.”

“My birthday.” James blinked, completely thrown, and sank into the nearest chair. What the devil would Francis ever make for him? And on the heels of that thought, a tiny thread of excitement. Francis wanted to make something just for  _ him. _ “But – but that’s – still March. Ages away. Why wouldn’t he just – ”

“James,” said Jopson again, a touch more aggrieved this time, “trust me when I tell you that you are not having the problem you imagine you’re having.”

“For god’s sake, Thomas, I don’t even understand what goddamned problem I’m having!”

Francis did not and would not ever feel the same way James did. He was straight, for fuck’s sake! And even if he weren’t, he wasn’t interested in anything romantic with James. Period.

“I really think you do.” Jopson let out another sigh. “Just – send Francis something tomorrow, like nothing’s happened. I’m sure he’ll be glad to explain what’s happened, if you give him time.”

Something – like a gift? Or a token? An invitation?

Perhaps all James needed to do was let Francis know he was still here. Offer the man some space. Let him come back when he was ready to talk further.

“Right.” He was feeling slightly calmer now. “I can do that. Erm. Thanks for – for – letting me ramble on about all this.”

Jopson actually laughed, low and pleased. “Well, it’s quite all right.”

A sudden bit of inspiration struck James all of the sudden. “Hang on. Does he usually eat breakfast at home?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Jopson retorted wryly, which made James roll his eyes. Of course he didn’t. Mars bar from the bloody vending machine, more likely.

 

##

 

Walking into the shop Wednesday morning at quarter to seven, Francis dreaded seeing Jopson and Little and Blanky and so many knowing faces. 

They were going to notice that he’d gone absolutely mad in the span of twelve or so hours. He was going to say or do the wrong thing, or see James again, and immediately alert the whole garage to this – goddamned ridiculous development. 

Francis was – well. Being an idiot over another man, apparently. Which was not bloody well comforting at all, no matter what Sophia kept telling him.

“Good morning,” said Thomas from his usual place at his desk, as he spotted Francis. He shielded his face with one hand to hide his mouthful of food, still holding a metal fork between two fingers. “Sorry ‘bout the crumbs.”

“‘S fine.”

Francis didn’t give much thought to this until he found a string-wrapped cardboard box sitting in the middle of his desk. A pleasant scent stirred through the air. The sides and bottom of the box were still searing hot.

Unwrapping the string, he opened the box to find three enormous fluffy scones sitting inside on red-and-white checked wax paper. The savory scents of melting cheese and spicy pepper and what appeared to be bacon, or perhaps even sausage, or both, floated up from inside.

Taped to the lid was a note in elegant handwriting:

  
  


> _ In case you didn’t get your fill of breakfast last night. Come and see me when you can.  _
> 
> _ –J _

  
  


A knot in Francis’s chest suddenly loosened; he breathed easily for the first time in hours, or perhaps even since yesterday afternoon. James wasn’t angry with him.

Probably damned confused. But not angry.

Fucking hell. Francis was damned confused, too, so he could accept that James was only trying his best to figure out what was wrong. Christ. Maybe he'd done the wrong thing by running off. Maybe he should've phoned back and told him something to ease his mind, even if it wasn't the whole truth.

“Eyup, Frank.” 

In the doorway was Blanky, holding a scone of his own, wrapped in the same paper. He was currently tearing into one end of the bread as if he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks.

“Your Jamie gave me extra bacon in mine,” was all he said, through an enormous bite. “Hell of a cook.”

“Say one more goddamned word, and I’ll toss your peg leg into the trash compactor.” Francis tried to pretend he wasn’t blushing. The threat of dismemberment did not even work; Blanky just laughed in a dark, knowing way. “Now get back to your fucking toolbox and earn your keep, you sodding lunatic.”

“Francis Siobhan Molly Crozier – ”

“That is  _ not  _ my fucking name – ”

“Well, whoever you are, you’re a fucking idiot if you don’t call him after this,” retorted Blanky fondly, and didn’t move a muscle.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James has [terrible/wonderful taste in sweatshirts.](https://www.bonanza.com/listings/Royal-Navy-Glory-UK-Jumper-British-Rule-Men-Sweatshirt/552909689?goog_pla=1&variation_id=477840456&gpid=339470924329&keyword=&goog_pla=1&pos=1o1&ad_type=pla&gclid=CjwKCAjw0oveBRAmEiwAzf6_rCJXejlL4yjNHOYg81F52Nr93N0R9YJlYuChMMHpHDdusKEN8IKIsRoClQkQAvD_BwE)
> 
> IMO, it would have been amazing in the book or show if Francis and Sophia were two gay babies trying to date and not understanding why it was so awful. Hence why I gave Sophia a cute wife - named Juliette after J. Binoche.
> 
> Blanky is the best BFF ever. Also also, I picture him looking like a younger Willie Nelson. [The 80s version](https://www.psacard.com/autographfacts/music/willie-nelson/2093), with the shorter hair or maybe braids & the dark beard. He's got that Steve McQueen biker vibe.


	5. Chapter 5

“... and so he finally phoned me back, and we talked for an hour or so, which was all well and good, but I… Christ. I can’t stop thinking about him, John.”

“So I see,” said John Bridgens mildly as he sat back in his chair, and steepled both hands across his stomach. “It’s near one-thirty already.”

And they’d not even got close to discussing business in the hour since they’d arrived. Although they could have met anywhere to discuss the latest rounds of edits to James’s new book, John had insisted they choose a location which would inspire calm thoughtfulness and colorful repose. He had a reputation for putting anxious authors at ease, after all.

Today, he had suggested high tea at The Lanesborough, so that they could experience a bit of novelty, paired with a bit more elegance – and all at the right price, considering the agency was picking up the tab.

“And before you say something hideously well-meaning, I will say for the record that I don’t normally do this.” James carded one hand through the back of his hair in an agitated fashion, collapsing backward into his chair and then sitting up ramrod-straight. As if his posture were the item under question. “I don’t just – fall all over myself for a straight man, for god’s sake.”

“Well, how do you know he’s straight? Has he said so?”

James gaped at him, struck mute. John nearly laughed at the man’s bug-eyed expression until it was clear he had not given this idea a whit of real consideration.

“In my experience, I’ve met plenty of men who could’ve sworn they were one thing, then found out very differently once they’d met the right person.”

Like Henry, for example. Although he tried not to brag, it was sometimes a little difficult.

“You think he’s – ” judging by the plain shock on James’s face, the possibility that this Francis might be gay, bisexual, or anything other than a solid Kinsey null, was astounding to him. “No. No, that’s – I mean, I’d have – I’ve told him about Edward, obviously. First day we met. And Francis was – understanding, obviously, but sort of – puzzled. And he’s continued to – he knows how important that part of my life is to me – ”

“Well, of course he would. You have Alice.”

“Yes, but it’s – I forgot to mention, he absolutely dotes on Alice. You should see what he’s put together for her for Christmas, John. She’s been begging for a toolbox to fix up her little razor scooter. Or build something for it. I don’t know why; damn thing’s near new. So Francis went out and bought everything she’d need, airbrushed the whole kit this _searing_ neon green with purple and black flames on the sides, and even picked out the wrapping paper. Think he’s going to hide it in eight or ten boxes, like a Russian nesting doll. She’ll adore it.”

“Doesn’t sound like something you’d do for a casual friend.”

“Of course not. But he – just – well, look here.” Out came James’s phone from his faded _Shakespeare and Company_ tote; quickly, the man thumbed through a few screens, then swiped to the item in question, which turned out to be a picture. “If he was anything other than straight, I’d assume he’d have – better clothes. Not that he looks bad. He looks – ” James swallowed visibly, glanced out across the room. “Really good. Totally oblivious to it, honestly.”

John pulled his glasses down onto his nose to get a better look at the picture in question, and swiped through the next few. Here, James was at either at a birthday party or had crashed an informal book club reading again, judging by the store-bought cake and pale balloons in the background. Next to him in nearly every photo was a scruffy-looking ginger man in a dark leather jacket, rock t-shirt, and loose-fitting bootcut jeans over Doc Martens. Handsome, playful, nice smile. Clothes were a bit too punk for John’s taste, stylistically, but given the right setting, this sort of man seemed like he’d fit right in next to the gay biker scene, or the big burly lads on that silly app Henry liked to tease him about. Winder? Blinders? Whatever.

One detail kept catching John’s eye – beyond the besotted way these two smiled at each other in pictures, which was well and truly charming.

“And the pink drinks?”

“Oh, gosh,” said James, and blushed as John handed him back the phone. “Well, it’s – Francis is sober, for one thing, so there’s no alcohol in his. But he’d said this thing, that night, that the pink ones are always the strongest. Some ex-girlfriend of his – may be Sophia, now that I think about it – used to down her weight in cosmopolitans without blinking an eye. Thought he was having a laugh, so I took it as a personal challenge.” A rueful look. “Worst hangover I’ve had in a decade.”

John knew better than to be waylaid by one of the man’s adventure stories. “Has he only had girlfriends up to now?”

“Far as I know. But I – ” a pause “ – suppose I haven’t asked.”

All right. Enough prevaricating, then. “Are you going to?”

James’s posture stiffened, and he went a little pale. “John.”

“Easy, lad. You may not be paying me for personal advice, but I’ll give you some anyway, if you’ll let me.” A pause; John considered what he might say that could be most helpful. “Judging by everything you’ve said, this man clearly enjoys seeing you, and spending time with you and Alice. And whether that friendship could turn into something more is anyone’s guess, but you’ll not know unless you gather your courage and find out. ‘Cause I don’t think you’re the type of person who could forgive himself for missing such an opportunity, if you two’re as close as it seems.”

A groan. James scrubbed both hands over his face before taking another sip of his tea. “Stop being so damn sensible, Bridgens. It’s very off-putting for an agent.”

“Well, we are known for being off-putting as a species.”

Before John could stop him, James sighed loudly, picked up his phone from the table, and put it to his ear. Thank god their table was near the back; the maitre’d was currently giving them a furious look from his post.

Fortunately, James had already got an answer on the other end. Receptionist or something. “‘Lo, Jopson. How are you. Is Francis in?”

A pause, as they waited for Francis to pick up. John could tell the second the other man got on the line; James turned slightly pink, his voice got soft and bright, and he began worrying his bottom lip between his front teeth.

“Yeah, hi.” His voice got softer. “No, everything’s all right. I, ah – actually I wanted to – ask you something important. If you’ve, ah, got a minute or two to chat?”

He glanced at John, panic creeping into his usual smile. John exhaled a long breath and made a lowering gesture toward the tablecloth with both hands, as if pushing away an invisible force. _Relax._

“Do I need a kidney?” A bemused flicker of amusement crossed James’s face. “No, I do not need a kidney. Or a spleen. I – ” he glanced at John, clearly horrified at the direction this conversation was taking, although John had no bloody idea how to segue from flirtatious banter about organ donation all the way back to a dinner invitation. “Well, actually, I, er, wanted to know if you were free for dinner tomorrow night.”

A pause. He was listening intently, biting his lip again.

“No, no, I don’t mean – not takeaway, this time.” James’s voice got low, and he shut his eyes, clearly bracing for the worst. Or trying to keep the rest of the world out. “I mean – a – a proper dinner. Just the two of us.”

Another long pause.

“Er. Like a date.” He winced visibly, clenching one fist above the white tablecloth, just next to his plate. “Well. It – it would be one, obviously. If you wanted to – go out with me.”

Oh, lord, John was starting to sweat _for_ him. He’d never seen James so tongue-tied; it was like being introduced to a completely new person. Who on earth could make the hero of Norfolk fumble his words like a blushing schoolgirl?

“You – yeah? Really?” The relieved smile that broke across James’s face could have lit up an entire ballroom, and all the tension drained from his shoulders. “Oh, thank Christ. I thought – ” A pause; he sighed. “No, no, I’m not – it’s actually helping. Keep that up.”

He let out a punch-drunk laugh, which edged high and awkward across the room.

“Right. Well, I’ll, ah, see you tomorrow, then. That’s all I had to say.” Another laugh, less forced this time. “Come by the house beforehand, and you can say hello to Alice. Maybe seven o’clock. Mm hm. Sounds good. We’ll – I’ll text you some options. Yeah. Me as well. Okay. All right, bye.”

When James hung up, his eyes shone like two twinkling stars, and for a second, he could do nothing but grin sightlessly at the tablecloth.

“Well?” demanded John. “I’m hoping that was a yes?”

James glanced up, still beaming. “Yeah. Said _of course,_ technically.” A dreamy sigh. “Then he called me a bloody idiot and started insulting me so I’d calm down.”

“You see? And now you’ve got your answer.” John couldn’t help smiling back, although the idea of insulting a lover as flirtation was completely foreign to him. “Here. We’ll have a bit of champagne before we go, then.”

And perhaps discuss edits over lunch in a couple of days.

 

 

##

 

 

“Francis! Francis!”

With a squeal of delight, Alice saw her friend across the big room, and rushed into his arms; he picked her up and lifted her really high before giving her a hug.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

She kissed him on the nose, and flung her arms around his neck. “Hi.”

“Is your daddy coming in behind you?”

“Yeah.” She patted his whiskered cheek, then decided she wanted to get down. “Can I see the scary spinning machine again? Pleeeeeease.”

“You can, if you can find the scary Yorkshireman who operates it,” said Francis with a snort. “Don’t run in the garage, though.”

“Okay!” Sprinting down the long back hallway, she waved to Edward and Thomas and a couple of the other boys before getting to the giant concrete room. It smelled like gas and spilled oil. “Blanky? Hey, where’d everyone go?”

“Is tha’ a tiny little sprite I hear?” came a booming voice; Alice whirled around with a shriek of fake fear and real glee as Blanky limped into view.

“No, it’s me!” she told him, and put both hands on her hips. “It’s Alice!”

“Well, come ‘ere and say a proper hello, then, Hit’s Alice.”

She did, hugging his good leg tightly and then pulling away, tugging at both of his rough, grimy hands so he’d pay more attention to her. “Hi hi hi. Where’s the fancy black bike today?”

“Back with the fancy white idiot who can’t drive it,” Blanky told her with a snort, and twirled her around with one hand, like they were dancing in the movies. It made her skirt go all swirly. “D’you want to come and have a look at what I’m doing now, though?”

“Yeah!”

Something shiny was on a big turning stake above Blanky’s messy work table. By the time he lifted her up onto the footstool so she could get a better look at it, Alice gasped out loud when she saw what it was.

“That’s a leg!”

Or something like it, anyway. She recognized the foot part and the top part!

“Too right. Gonna be my new leg, innit, once I get tired of this ruddy old thing.”

He tapped part of the fake leg he was wearing, the metal rod above his shoe all scratched and dinged, against the edge of the table.

“Cool,” Alice pronounced, and poked it with a careful finger. “What’re you gonna do with it this time?”

Blanky never wanted his metal leg to look boring. Alice guessed she understood that. Who would want to have a boring old regular leg if they could have a cool one?

“Not quite sure, really. Was thinking I’d try making one of those prosthetic blades, right? Only instead of just havin’ the plain curved bit to stand on, like this – ” he drew a quick shape on a scrap of paper with a stubby pencil “ – I’d laser some kind of design inside the blade. Sailor-like. Galleon on the ocean or summat along those lines.”

“ _Wow,”_ said Alice, as she tried to picture this. A galleon was a ship; she had read that in her picture book on boats. “With fish and waves all around it?”

“Duck, if you can show me how it’s done, I’ll put in a bloody sea monster, won’t I?”

She laughed again, and took the pencil from his outstretched hand, drawing on the edge of the table for a few seconds.

“I know what Francis’s getting for Christmas,” she said proudly. “But it’s a secret.”

“From your dad?” Blanky’s smile got wide; he lowered his voice and cupped one hand to his ear. “Let’s hear it, then. I’ll not say a word.”

She cupped her hand over her mouth to whisper. “They’re going to _an opera_.”

“Really? You’re jokin’ me.”

“Nope.” She erased an ugly squiggly line. “Daddy’s going to cook dinner, and then they’ll put on their smart clothes to go to the fancy theatre, and then I get to go to Meghan’s house and spend the night and eat chocolate chip cookies for as _long_ as I want.”

“Oh, I see,” said Blanky. He was still smiling, but it wasn’t as big, this time. “Well. Seems to me Francis might end up likin’ that well enough. Specially the last bit.”

“He won’t get any cookies, though. Those’re only for me and Meghan. Duh.”

“Course.” A pause; he screwed up his face like he was thinking really hard. “S’pose I shouldn’t take him to the opera for Hanukkah, then?”

“No!” She tapped his wrist with the pencil; he yanked his arm backwards with a quiet _ouch!_ “Sorry. Daddy says we can’t spoil the surprise, so you can’t tell. Cross your heart.”

“All right, duck. Cross my heart, hope to die, stew an’ fry.”

“Ew!” she giggled. “Blanky, you’re weird.”

“Too right. That’s why you like me, eh?”

“I guess,” sighed Alice in a dramatic way, trying to be funny, but relented and hugged Blanky’s outstretched arm before he could think she was serious.

 

##

 

 

“What the fucking _fuck_ do I even wear to an opera?” Standing in front of the mirror in the upscale department store, Francis consulted the various angled reflections with mounting despair, and turned to meet Sophia’s faintly-amused gaze.

“Probably a suit made after Y2K,” she said sweetly, and went back to filing her nails.

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s true, though.” Her smirk got wider. “Oh, you really ought to relax, Francis. No one’s going to laugh at you. Everyone else’s just going to look a bit smarter than usual. And I’m sure James’ll be wearing a suit, as well.”

“Well, I feel like an idiot in this one,” he complained, adjusting one cufflink, and then tugging at the collar of the white shirt, which was too tight. “Like I’m going to a god-damned funeral.”

“Black washes you out. That’s why you look so peaky.” Sophia tossed her nail file down into her enormous red purse, got up, walked over to a nearby rack, and plucked a navy blue suit from the middle of the lot. “Here, try this one next. And lose the white shirt, as well. You look like Juliette’s granddad.”

Alarmed, he glanced down at the tuxedo front. “What’s wrong with the white shirt? Thought it was classic.”

_Wasn’t that what you were supposed to put under suits?_

“Do you remember me saying you should look like you bought this _after_ the new millennium?”

“God, I bloody hate you. You’re an absolute harpy,” griped Francis, as he snatched the hanger from her outstretched hand.

Sophia just laughed, and patted his arm. “I know, darling. It’s why you love me.”

 

##

 

When the doorbell rang, James heard little feet thunder down the stairs almost immediately as Alice ran to get it.

“Oh my gosh.” She actually gasped; the breathless sound made James turn his head and attempt to get a look at Francis through the kitchen doorway. Sadly, he couldn’t see much from this angle save for Alice’s light-up shoes. “You look beautiful!”

“Not near as beautiful as you,” came the gruff, pleased answer. “Here. Picked you up something at the market.”

Immediately, Alice came scampering back into the kitchen with a pink tea rose in one hand and a palm-sized stuffed octopus in the other, her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Daddy, look! Francis got me a flower!”

“Brought your dad a little something, as well,” said Francis as he ambled into view. “‘Lo, James.”

Glancing up, James’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

Wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo instead of his usual leather jacket-and-jeans combination, Francis looked exquisite. He’d had a haircut, and his beard was freshly-trimmed. His tuxedo jacket was set off by a satin black shawl collar that contrasted beautifully with his fair skin and red hair. Paired with a black bow tie and a pale blue shirt instead of classic white, the ensemble was set off by a pair of his usual Doc Martens, polished to mahogany sheen. And in his right hand was a small bouquet of flowers – curling ferns and eucalyptus paired with lush red and purple dahlias.

He had never seen Francis wear _anything_ like this, and all with that confident, easy gleam in his eyes, carrying flowers in one hand. Frankly, the man looked like sex on two legs.

James swallowed hard, grasped for coherent words.

“Hi,” was all that emerged.

One corner of Francis’s mouth twitched up as he walked forward, and placed the small bouquet in front of James’s hands. “Not going to humiliate you, am I?”

Dumbly, James shook his head no. “You look – ”

_Gorgeous. Decadent. Fucking brilliant._

“– amazing.”

Even this compliment, small as it was, made Francis duck his head on a blush, and smile so brightly it showed off the gap in his teeth.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“I, erm.” James was certain there was something he was forgetting, and then realized, with a start, that he was still in a ratty jumper and jeans, and leapt to his feet. “Really should get dressed, if we’re going to make our reservation. Sorry. Just be a few minutes.”

Or maybe they didn’t have to go anywhere at all. He could text Henry with some flimsy emergency and send Alice on her merry way, then pull Francis into his bedroom, and strip each vibrant suit piece off of the Irishman’s body one by one until….

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Safely hidden in his room, his heart raced like mad as he tossed the deceptively-casual outfit he and Bridgens had selected only hours ago back into the closet, not even bothering to hang up the jacket again. Don’t panic. Don’t overthink it. You’re just going to have an enjoyable night out, that’s all.

_And snog the pants off him afterward,_ whispered a little voice _._

As James buttoned his shirt and adjusted the covered placket, and drew his black satin jacket up over his shoulders, he consulted his reflection in the bureau mirror. Not too bad, really, considering how damned distracted he was.

What shoes should he wear? Oh, for the love of Christ.

_Go and get your slippers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bridgens as James's editor just seemed PERFECT, and I am not sorry for bringing him into this fic at all. You know he's probably dragged James to a bunch of locales around the city, just to gently break the news to him that "chapter five is a bit too confusing, you'll need to re-do it. Also, I have corrected about twenty thousand spelling errors and typos." Why do I have the feeling that James is the author constantly hung up on how awful his writing is? He'd need a Bridgens to cheer him on, for sure.
> 
> Also, shy!James asking Francis out is just *chef's kiss*. Delightful. You know Francis probably did a victory dance in his office after hanging up the phone!!
> 
> Re: the tuxedo looks, I figured the best Sophia could do was drag Francis to Zara. 
> 
> James, OTOH....that poor boy has some OUTFITS. [Here's what he's wearing.](https://www.matchesfashion.com/products/Kilgour-Satin-lapel-wool-and-mohair-blend-tuxedo-1237803) Along with [themed slippers!](https://stubbsandwootton.com/collections/men-sale/products/gladius-men-slipper-ps?variant=8140244549738) I think this outfit would make him look like a more sophisticated Han Solo, a line which TRAGICALLY did not make it into the fic, but is 100% what I thought Francis would imagine when he thought of a Hot-Ass Man.


	6. Chapter 6

“Can’t believe you thought I was dragging you to the _opera,_ ” James said again, as they opened the door to the house, and hung up their coats.

Francis suppressed a small shiver as he shut the door behind them. That blast of frigid wind gusting up the stairs was rather chilly for November, even through the suit.

“Ah. The intel was off,” he quipped, which made James snicker and squeeze his shoulder. “Field agent’s been busy with multiplication.”

“Can’t say I’m very sorry about that.” James toed out of his ridiculous velvet slippers and absurdly tiny socks, now looking so effortlessly handsome in his rumpled tuxedo and bare feet that the sight alone made Francis’s heart stutter in his chest. “Would’ve hated you to be spoiled about the rigged chandelier. Or the masquerade.”

“Did like the chandelier,” agreed Francis. “Although it’s a wonder I heard a damn thing from the stage at all, given that you loudly sang every word under your breath.”

Honestly – and Francis would never admit this – the most enjoyable part of the evening had been watching how starry-eyed James got over the entire performance. There were several impressive technical moments, obviously, but cataloging the Phantom’s elaborate seduction of Christine, and witnessing how this moonlit moor elicited appreciative sighs and soft touches of James’s hand, paired with breathless comments about the story, had been much more interesting to Francis than anything else in that bloody Paris opera house. Madame Giry should just have shot the Phantom in the leg ages ago and been done with it.

They had reached the kitchen counter; James brought out a shallow glass for each of them, and poured them each a generous measure of ice cold water.

“Because it’s a crime to hear _Angel of Music_ without at least humming along.” Clearly unbothered by Francis’s teasing, James opened the refrigerator and produced two eggs, milk, and a bit of butter. “Which you would know, if you’d ever been a serious _patrón_ of the theater.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I also liked the pitchy diva?” offered Francis with a raised eyebrow. He even attempted to hum a few notes from the two opera owners’ selection.

James cut him a very unamused glare; Francis burst out laughing at the sheer volume of offense on his face.

Seconds later, he realized James was not just moving items around the fridge at random, but was clearly planning to make something. He’d put a pan on the stove, and was now opening a loaf of thickly-sliced bread.

“What’re you doing now? Having a sandwich?”

James turned, pursed his mouth in a secretive way. “Cooking breakfast.”

“It’s ten forty five,” said Francis, utterly deadpan, as his date brought a small mixing bowl and three vials of spices over to the kitchen island. “And dinner was enormous. Do you remember when breakfast is normally served, James?”

“You know, Francis, I have it on _very_ good authority that some people can eat breakfast at all hours of the day. And could perhaps even enjoy my world-famous, star-baker-worthy French toast between the hours of ten and midnight. Hm?”

With a dramatic flourish, James cracked the first egg over the bowl with one hand, then a second, and began to mix his ingredients together.

Stunned into silence, Francis watched the man work for several moments before attempting to speak.

“You’re making French toast?”

When James glanced up this time, one hand poised in the air over a jar of nutmeg, his gaze was oddly open. “I did say I’d cook for you.”

“That’s true.”

Francis hadn’t forgotten. And now it was all he could focus on, as James shed his tuxedo jacket and hung it on the back of the nearest chair, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he waited for butter to melt in the pan.

“Can I – do anything, or – ”

“Just enjoy,” said James, as he finished mixing the last of the batter together, and brought the half-full bowl over to the stove. When he returned to pick up the empty plate, he touched Francis’s wrist with one hand. “That’s all.”

Enjoy it he did.

Watching James cook was an exercise in awed anticipation; the man moved through the small space like a Michelin-star-rated chef in the middle of the dinner rush, even while creating something as simple as toast: dipping pieces of gorgeously soft bread in batter and frying them up in the pan first, then dusting each side in a shower of cinnamon and brown sugar – all while barely breaking a sweat.

The fact that James’s gorgeous arse was on full display throughout this command performance did not hurt one bit. He was, Francis thought grudgingly, quite correct to choose the fitted trousers at all times. Even if they looked ridiculous on the hanger.

By the time James was plating what Francis knew instinctively was to be the piece de resistance – carefully stacking two thick triangles of toast against each other like a jutting roofline, showering a pinch of powdered sugar across each piece using forefinger and thumb, and swirling some sort of strawberry or raspberry sauce in a pattern over all of this – he was not sure what was more erotic. Was it the sinful decadence of the near-completed dish sitting on the plate, or the slight mist of sweat that had now beaded on James’s upper lip while he frowned at his work in deep concentration?

“Not done yet.”

Turning back to the refrigerator for a moment, James opened the door, closed it again, and returned to the island with a large, colorful bottle. Whipped cream.

“Just a dash, I think,” he said, more to himself than to Francis. Quickly, he sprayed several large dollops onto the plate, in a sort of flower petal design.

Francis could not stifle a small laugh. “Bit more than a dash, there.”

James grinned, put the bottle aside, and licked a small bit of cream off the side of his finger in preparation to handle the plate again; Francis’s eyes tracked the movement of his tongue against the skin, wondered at the dampness that was surely left behind.

“You’ve, ah. Got a bit just – there.”

Corner of his lips.

Francis gestured to his own face to mirror where it was; he ached to touch James’s lovely laughing mouth, to kiss it, to see it fall open and obscene in all its lush red glory.

“Oh?”

Slowly, his hands still empty, James swiped at the opposite side of his face with two fingers, nowhere near close enough to the beautiful bow of his lips, or the inviting fleck of cream still poised over his lip line, like a tiny beauty mark or a swipe of flavored gloss.

“No.” Dream-like, so slowly his outstretched hand shook visibly, Francis reached forward, brushed the pad of his thumb against the corner of James’s mouth, and dragged the digit slowly across his bottom lip. James’s eyes darkened at the simple touch. “Here.”

And suddenly James’s mouth was on his, and Francis’s cock twitched against one thigh as his friend drew him into a passionate embrace, right there at the kitchen counter. _Jesus fucking Christ._ Strong, lean hands skimmed Francis’s shoulders, clutched at his middle, skated through his hair and beard, and suddenly food was the farthest thing from Francis’s mind.

“Your toast,” he murmured, as James pulled him to his feet on unsteady knees.

James just scoffed. “Good cold.”

Thank god for that.

They stumbled back into the living room and toward the loveseat; Francis fumbling desperately at James’s shirtfront in between deep, searing, knee-trembling kisses. When he could not get his shaking fingers to navigate the placket or the actual buttons themselves, he bloody well gave up on the shirt, and palmed James’s fly in one hand, softly squeezing here until the hard ridge beneath the fabric twitched helplessly up under his palm.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” groaned James, and sat down hard, like his legs would no longer hold him.

Francis wasted no time; moving forward on his knees, he captured James’s mouth in another kiss, harder and more insistent this time, paired with a knowing, searching hand that teased and caressed James’s now-very hard cock, as he laid the man down against the soft beige cushions, and pressed the full length of their bodies together for the first time.

Christ, he’d never been so hard for it in his whole life.

Within seconds, James shivered and bucked against him, and pulled him still closer, and then they were kissing like two condemned men on the eve of battle, moaning out soft noises of encouragement and rutting against each other through rumpled tuxedo trousers, still wearing most of their clothes, too impatient to break apart even for a second.

“Good Christ,” James hissed as Francis bent his head to that long, elegant neck, yanking his open shirt collar to one side, nipping and biting and sucking a deep bruise next to the hollow of his throat until James whined aloud. Then, he did it again, harder, until James made that same desperate whimpering sound a second time.

“Don’t stop, Francis. Please.”

They rolled to the right, kicking and pushing cushions into the floor in their haste; now braced against the flat back of the sofa, Francis made a feral noise, and hooked one leg around James’s lanky frame so their cocks rubbed even closer together, hips bucking in a frantic rhythm through the insistent, nearly-painful friction of bunched-up fabric against sensitive flesh.

“There! Oh, god, faster. Feel – feels so good on my –”

“Jesus God, James.” A tilt of his hips in just the right place, against the lovely filthy divot of James’s pelvis, and Francis began to shake, trembling so hard he was certain he’d fly to pieces. He clutched James closer. “So bloody gorgeous. Look at you. Look at you. Fucking – ”

“Mmph! Shit!” James’s mouth glinted wet and dark in the soft mote of blue light filtering in from the street, opening on a harsh gasp as Francis slid his hands even lower and kneaded that gorgeous arse in both hands. “Fuck! Francis, ‘m gonna come, oh my god, ‘m gonna – I – ”

With a series of high-pitched, desperate grunts, back arching against the sofa, James shuddered and spent inside his trousers, his hands clutching fiercely at Francis’s shoulders before his body finally slackened.

Seconds later, Francis found his own release, voice breaking over a low, cracked whimper. Unable to do anything except shiver, he collapsed into James’s chest, wheezing for breath, struck mute for nearly a minute.

“Can we – can we take these fucking penguin suits off, then?” he finally gasped out.

James made an amused noise, and began to laugh, his fingers slowly caressing down the small of Francis’s back.

“Only if you’ll take me to bed after.”

“Mmkay,” sighed Francis, very cheerful. Reluctantly, he pulled away from James, and tried to sit up. He was still dizzy from the climax. “Have you good and proper, this time.”

“Course you will, wobbly-legs,” James said with a snort, and flattened down his hair with one hand. It was sticking out all over in the back, nearly too adorable for words. “After I suck you off, anyway.”

Francis’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open, but no words came out for several seconds. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

James just winked at him in response.

Bit by bit, they pulled themselves up from the sofa, like two newborn giraffes learning how to walk all over again, and stumbled down the hall to James’s bedroom.

Just before they moved through the doorway and closed the last few yards between the humdrum outer hallway and the unknown, thrilling terrain of James’s bedroom, Francis took James by the hand and drew him back into a deep kiss.

 

##

 

Late the next morning, James awoke to the sound of birds in the back garden, Francis lying facedown and snoring lightly next to him, and the front door slamming shut.

“Daddy, come out here!”

And then he leapt upright, certain there was some awful emergency, struggling into a pair of baggy boxers and a silk bathrobe before rushing out into the hallway.

“What, Alice? What is it?”

As he rushed into the living room, three quizzical faces stared back at him from the sofa. They were clearly not in any danger at all.

The two girls barely even blinked, both occupied in playing GameBoy or DS or whatever those loud things were, while Henry – casually-dressed in a pair of trousers and a houndstooth shirt today – raised a knowing eyebrow at James’s very disheveled state, and began to laugh.

“Hello there.”

Quickly, James yanked his robe closed and tied it tightly around his middle. “We’ve talked about this, Alice. You have to tell me when other people are in the house.”

“Meghan and Henry are here,” she answered at once, not looking up from her little handheld game. “See?”

By this point, Henry was doubled over in hysterical laughter, near-weeping, and could barely choke out a sentence. “Something on your neck, eh?”

_Shit._

James had to force himself not to run nervous hands across his chest and up his throat. Probably covered in hickeys. “Yeah. Er. Fell into a – tree.”

Henry laughed even harder at this pathetic excuse. “Oh, this is brilliant. Des Voeux and Hornby both owe me twenty quid.”

“Why are you laughing?” asked a skeptical Meghan.

“Because I’m the smartest dad in the world, that’s all.” Henry coughed, tried to temper his laughter. “Save one, apparently.”

“Boring,” huffed Meghan, and promptly dashed off into the kitchen.

Alice quickly followed; James seized the opportunity to talk openly.

“Let me guess,” Henry cast a furtive, amused look back down the hall toward James’s bedroom. “Still having a lie-in?”

“Shut up.” James huffed out a breath, and thought quickly. “Right. If you take them to the movies for a couple of hours, I will – ” a sudden flash of inspiration, “oh. All right. I will stop telling your part of the Birdshit Island story in public _._ ”

Henry folded his arms over his chest like this was a terrible opening salvo, though his eyebrows jumped up in clear interest. “Go on.”

James swallowed, once. Got to sweeten the pot. “And I’ll help Meera chaperone the next Bonfire Night.”

“No, that’s not till next year. Throw in one more.”

Oh, god, he’d really have to make this one count.

“And I’ll be Father Christmas for the holiday fundraiser.” He sighed, glanced toward the front door. “The Saturday one.”

“Dear god,” exclaimed Henry on the edge of a whistle, but stuck his hand out for James to shake all the same. “Right. We’re agreed.”

“Now get out before I change my mind,” James added with an eyeroll, as Henry called for the girls and whisked them out the door, snacks, Capri-Suns, little games and all.

When James returned to the bedroom, he found Francis was both awake and still gloriously naked beneath the top sheet, idly flipping through a book on nautical history.

“S’pose I should get dressed,” was all he said, once he met James’s inquisitive gaze.

James shook his head no, and untied his robe, shedding it in a playful way before dropping the seductive act and leaping onto the bed like a wild idiot diving into the public pool.

“Jesus Christ,” yelped Francis, although he was giggling, already reaching out to draw James back into his arms. “You bloody madman.”

“I know. Kiss me good morning,” James instructed archly.

They did not get dressed for another hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's a Phantom of the Opera nerd? James. James is a Phantom of the Opera nerd. I imagine he queued up for the original West End version every time he was in London, so has seen the show approximately eight billion times.
> 
> Also: YAY SEXY COOKING LEADING TO SEXY SMUT. I wanted them to get together so badly, but they were impatient as fuck. If I ever write any more in this universe it'll be smut, because they deserve to bone more than once!
> 
> Henry probably collects money from half the PTA re: James and Francis finally hooking up. Just assume most of the classroom moms see him at the next school gathering and want to gossip THE HELL out of this Hot New Boyfriend situation.


	7. Chapter 7

_ten years later_

 

“All right, all right. Let’s have our big to-do, then.”

Francis smirked as James placed a giant platter of French toast to one side of the table, and sat down on his other side. At his right hand, Alice – who at sixteen, was almost as tall as they were, as rangy as James, and had a tousled mass of long, ash-blonde hair tipped with hot pink – slipped out of her chair with a big grin, went to the pantry, and returned with a giant pirate-themed gift bag in her hand, which she briskly deposited onto his folded napkin. A large silvery glitter skull adorned the front.

“Blanky said this one would be your favorite.”

“‘S true,” said Francis, with a wry laugh. “Did you get me a ship, then?”

“No.” Alice rolled her eyes. “Just open it.”

“Polite little terror, aren’t you?” Francis felt both their eyes on him as he tossed the white tissue paper aside, and pulled out what turned out to be a handmade scrapbook. “Well, well. Look how clever this is.” He held it up for James to see. “This the reason you kept sneaking off to the crafts store last month?”

“No idea what you mean,” murmured James, but he was biting his lip to hide a smile. Else he was nervous.

Francis chuckled as he saw the cover – the black and white design had aped the logo from one of his favourite bands. _AC ⚡ FC –_ complete with hand-drawn lightning bolt between the letters _._ And both their names written underneath.

_Alice Charlewood (Fitzjames)_

_Francis Crozier_

“Don’t need any of the other letters, obviously,” Francis joked as he glanced up.

This got a perfunctory smile from James, but nothing more.

Raising an eyebrow at this unusual display of restraint, Francis turned back to the scrapbook. Inside were a series of pictures of him and Alice, and him and James and Alice, and him and James, all starting from the very first photo Francis and Alice had had ever shared together – a snapshot Jopson had captured on his phone the very first day they had all met.

In it, Francis was leading a very small pigtailed girl in glittery trainers by the hand, so they could all take the bus home together. She was glancing up at him with her beret sliding off her head, and her little stub of snipped braid sticking out from underneath, mouth open, clearly in the middle of a sentence. He was glancing down at her with a bemused smile.

On the last page, a small manila envelope, tied with red string, bore the cheerful note “read me!” scrawled in green Sharpie across a bed of hand-drawn flowers and skulls.

Francis unspooled the thread from the closure, and pulled out what ended up being two thick packets of paper, both folded in thirds.

The first: a deed for a minor’s name change, with only the first field filled out:

_Alice Charlewood Fitzjames Crozier_

The second: a dull-looking form, simply titled _A58: Application for Adoption Order_.

A knot of tears sat low in his throat as he glanced up at Alice, whose dark, expressive eyes – so much like James’s – watched him with hopeful expectance.

Shocked, unable to understand what he was reading, he turned to a clearly-emotional James, whose eyes were visibly brimming. Quickly and without fanfare, James pulled up an article from his lap, hidden beneath the table: a black t-shirt with the same design as the scrapbook cover, which he held against his body, faux-casual.

“Also, we made these. If you want one.”

Fully weeping now, Francis hid his face in one hand; the other rested palm-down on top of those stupid beautiful forms.

“Oh, Alice.”

A tearful Alice clambered up from her chair and looped both arms around Francis’s shoulders. “You’re my dad. You take care of me and Daddy. Almost since the day we met.”

“Yeah,” sobbed Francis, and made a small squeaking noise. “‘M your dad, darling. Always will be. And I – god, I’m sorry for – for gettin’ all – ”

“It’s all right, Francis.” James placed both hands onto Francis’s outstretched arm and rubbed one thumb along the side of his bare wrist, the simple touch steady and reassuring. Francis squeezed his hand tight for a few seconds. “We just love you, that’s all.”

“Love you back,” Francis told them over and over, swiping away more tears, kissing his daughter’s cheek, kissing the back of his husband’s outstretched fingers. He was shaking like a leaf, now, the same way he’d done at the top of the altar on the day he and James got married. “So very much.”

After a long moment, he sat up, briefly touched Alice’s face with one hand, and hugged her. Once he released her, he glanced around the table, clearing his throat a couple of times so he could finally get more than two words out.

“Erm. Anyone – got a pen handy?” A sniff. “Fill these in right now.”

Alice yelped in wordless delight, and immediately snatched the t-shirt off the tabletop. “Don’t sign them yet. I’m changing my outfit for the picture!”

“That’s our girl,” murmured James in a wondrous way, as she sprinted toward the stairs at an impressive speed.

Tearful again, Francis sat down and squeezed his husband’s hand a second time. “Yeah, it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever need to watch something online that cheers you right the hell up, pick any of the "I asked my stepdad to adopt me" videos, because they are all fucking ADORABLE, and you get to see a bunch of sweet dads and sweet kids weep with delight. [This one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEy2ZQwbzXM) is a favorite, because there are so many great dad jokes. But [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0RAz7VFS2w) is good, too. And [this one.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0ItasdI1Js) Hell, they're all good!
> 
> IMO, this is the version of the adoption ask that Alice wanted: breakfast food and a cute gift. When she told James, he was probably firing off a thousand ideas a minute, all, "we can have a scavenger hunt and a flash mob and balloons and OUTFITS." All he got was the custom t-shirts. He is still very happy about that.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
